


The Pilgrim's Path

by Eisoj5



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-21
Updated: 2013-08-21
Packaged: 2017-12-24 06:05:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/936283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eisoj5/pseuds/Eisoj5
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I'll be taking some liberties with events and dialogue as they occur in-game; Ifelayo won't be involved in The Forsworn Conspiracy, for example, even though she should've gotten a note slipped into her pocket just now! She also isn't involved in any of the guilds, the Civil War, or the main quest; mention might be made of the presence of dragons, but she's unlikely to encounter any. </p><p>I have lots of screenshots that will accompany later chapters.</p><p>This story is completely sans beta; all mistakes are mine.</p></blockquote>





	The Pilgrim's Path

Ifelayo gazed down the mountainside at Markarth. The winter afternoon sun shone palely off its golden rooftops: the welcoming light of Skyrim. She set off again down the winding, overgrown path, determined to make it to the city by nightfall. No wolves beset her, as they had when she began her climb into the foothills of her native province; perhaps the rocky incline was too steep for them to inhabit on this side of the range. It was certainly almost too steep for her. Unfamiliar birdsong filled the air around her as she descended, relying now and again on her sturdy wooden staff to keep from losing her balance. 

She caught her breath as she finally found level ground, an hour or two later, the sun barely clipping the top of the mountains behind her. Ifelayo relit her lantern and hung it at her belt, immediately attracting a luna moth to her side. She watched it flit about her light for a heartbeat or two, admiring its wing patterns. Then she turned, and made her way towards the now looming edifices of Markarth.

The sound of rushing water grew ever louder as she approached the city doors. Over the din of the waterfall she heard the sounds of the stable: dogs barking as they chased each other around their owner’s legs, horses shifting and shuffling about. The breeze, thankfully, smelled of juniper and damp earth, rather than the animals. 

The two city guards at the stone steps nodded to her as she approached, their faces obscured behind their closed helmets. “Welcome to Markarth,” one of them said. “Safest city in the Reach.” 

Ifelayo looked up—and up—at the huge golden doors, etched with Dwemer designs. Neither guard leapt to her aid as she pushed one of the heavy doors open slowly, and she slipped into the City of Stone.

*****

The marketplace lay just inside the doors; it was bustling with patrons, though the expected noise of beckoning and bargaining was lost amidst the sounds of water pouring over stone. 

Ifelayo dipped her head to the butcher as she passed his stall. The sight of his wares made her stomach turn; she hadn’t eaten meat in years, since she had sworn herself to Mara, and these cuts were particularly rare...

As if reading her thoughts, the butcher called out, “Bloodiest beef in the Reach!” 

She paused at the silversmith’s wares, admiring the the complicated Nordic knots and scrollwork. A red-haired woman stepped up beside her and began to haggle with the seller over a necklace. 

“For the Forsworn!” 

The yell rang out even over the noise of the market and the waterfalls. Ifelayo turned to see a short Breton advancing on her with a blade. 

“Knife!” she shouted, dropping her pack and shifting into a fighting stance. The Breton ignored her, though, and thrust his blade towards the red-haired woman—

Ifelayo jabbed the butt of her staff at his hand, knocking the blade to the street. He cried out. She twirled the staff in her hands, and swept at his legs. He fell and joined the knife on the ground; she kicked it quickly out of his reach. She stared down at him. “Yield,” she said, aiming her staff between his legs.

Someone tapped her on the shoulder. Ifelayo turned and saw the green of a Markath guard’s tunic. “We’ll take it from here,” he said brusquely. Another guard had arrived and was talking to the butcher and the silversmith. 

“By the Eight, that man nearly killed me,” the red-haired woman said as Ifelayo stepped back from the prone attacker. “You saved my life.” She stared at the Breton moaning on the ground, her newly-purchased necklace dangling forgotten from her hand. 

“Come away from here,” Ifelayo said. “The guards will handle it—“

A wretched grunt came from the man on the ground. Ifelayo whirled around to see the guard pulling his sword free from the man’s chest. Blood seeped through the dead man’s worn tunic. 

She gasped, and the guard turned his faceless helm towards her. “Go on about your business.”

Pressing her lips together tightly, she forced her fist to unclench at her side. “Come on,” she said to the woman again, her voice low. “A glass of wine will settle both our nerves, I think.” 

“My name’s Margret,” the woman said. “I’ve a room and a tab at the Silver-Blood Inn. Least I can do for you is put you up there for the night.” She gestured across the street, keeping her head up and her gaze averted from the dead man. And the guards now dragging him away.

“That would be wonderful,” Ifelayo said. She stooped to retrieve her pack and saw something glimmering on top of it. “Oh—you dropped your necklace, Margret.” She picked it up and held it out across her fingers.

Margret looked down at the silver locket but made no move to take it. “You know what, why don’t you keep it? A token of my gratitude. Kerah does the finest work.”

Ifelayo bowed. “I’m honored. Thank you.” She clasped it about her neck; the locket hung just below the pendant of her amulet of Mara. 

They crossed the slowly emptying market and entered the Silver-Blood Inn. Ifelayo breathed a prayer to Mara for the sudden, welcome muting of the waterfalls. It was dark and cool inside, the heady smell of exotic vintages and smoke filling her nostrils. 

“Watch your step,” Margret said, and Ifelayo lifted her feet just in time to avoid trodding on an unconscious form slumped against the counter, one hand still clutching futilely at the stool seat above him. 

“Cosnach,” the Nord said by way of introduction to the unconscious man, waving a hand in his direction by way of introduction. “Someone beat him down again, Kleppr?”

The innkeep’s mouth quirked to the side. “Who hasn’t had a go at Cosnach lately?”

“You mean, who hasn’t Cosnach had a go at,” Margret corrected, smiling. “Kleppr, this is—oh! I never asked your name.” Her fair cheeks reddened. 

“I am called Ifelayo.” She bowed to the innkeeper. “Margret has had a near scrape with a, a Forsworn? A glass of your finest vintage would not be amiss.”

“A Forsworn?” Kleppr’s voice was anxious as he looked at Margret. 

“It was all very confusing,” she replied, shaking her head as if trying to rid herself of the experience. “The guards have taken care of it.” There was a warning note in her voice—Ifelayo was not certain if it was directed at her or Kleppr, but she took heed and did not bring up the attack again. 

“I would be grateful for some fare and a room,” she said instead. 

“Put her up in the room next to mine, not down by the mercenaries,” Margret hastily interjected, as Klepper began thumbing through the keys at his waist. She dipped a hand into her coin pouch and slid a stack of septims across the counter. 

Ifelayo raised an eyebrow at her. “I can certainly handle myself against the rougher sort,” she said. Then she smiled. “But thank you for thinking of it.”

“That sounds like a challenge,” a voice slurred from the floor. Ifelayo looked down to see the formerly-unconscious Breton pulling his way up to the stool. 

Margret frowned and planted a hand on her hip. “Cosnach, she’s new in town.”

“New, and flush with money, I bet,” Cosnach mumbled, eyeing Ifelayo up and down. 

“Oh, for goodness sake,” Margret said, exasperated. “Kleppr, throw him—“

Ifelayo let her smile grow wider. “No, it’s all right. Cosnach, is it?” She unslung her pack, setting it on the counter a prudent distance from the nearest candle, and laid her staff down beside it. “What will you wager?”

His eyes glinted—he was sobering up quickly at the prospect of a brawl. “A hundred septims.”

Ifelayo glanced at Margret, who elaborated, “The price of a single room for two nights.” 

“Unless you’d like to share it with me?” Cosnach smirked. Then he moved in, fists at the ready. 

She spun and caught him behind the knees with a kick, knocking him off balance. Her fist connected hard with his stomach and he dropped, wheezing, to the floor. 

“All right, all right,” Kleppr growled. “Newcomer, you win. Cosnach, crawl off to the Warrens, you’re making another scene.” 

“I like her,” Cosnach said from the floor. “Not many ladies around Markarth who can hit like that, ‘cepting Faleen of course. Hey, she’s a Redguard, too!” He squinted at Ifelayo. “Do you know her?”

“I have only just arrived in Skyrim,” Ifelayo reminded him, leaning down and offering him a hand up. “I do not know many people in Markarth at all.”

The Breton’s eyes were wide as he came back up to his feet. “Just arrived in Skyrim?“

“Yes. I am on a pilgrimage to the Benevolence of Mara,” Ifelayo explained, aware that their brief fight had attracted a few others, who were eyeing her curiously. “I understand it is on the other side of the province?”

“In Riften,” Kleppr told her. He shook his head. “You don’t want to be headed there, Ifelayo. Riften’s worse than here.” His voice told of dire possibilities. 

Ifelayo only smiled. “Lady Mara gives her blessings to those who need it most,” she said. “Although, if there are temples to the other Divines in this city, I would certainly seek there, as well.” 

Margret nodded, frowning at Cosnach as he attempted to retake his seat at the counter. “The temple to Dibella is here. It’s quite lovely, of course. And there’s a, well, no one goes there because of the Thalmor, but there is a temple for—“ she leaned in close, lowering her voice conspiratorially although all could still hear—“ _Talos_.”

One of the Nords who had ventured over during the short scuffle cast a nervous glance at Margret and quickly sidled away. 

Ifelayo looked around at the others. “Of course.” 

“And there’s the Hall of the Dead, for Arkay,” Cosnach said. As if he had conjured it, a full mug of ale was in his hand. Ifelayo suspected that Kleppr was fonder of the unruly Breton than he let on.

“Oh, yes, but it’s closed,” Margret’s face drew into a frown again. “The priest of Arkay hasn’t let anyone in for weeks now.”

“That is strange,” Ifelayo said. “Has he said why?”

“No one’s been told a reason,” Kleppr said. “And Thongvor Silver-Blood’s been getting mighty upset about it, hasn’t he, Margret?”

Margret blushed again but said nothing. 

“Perhaps that should be the shrine I seek first on the morrow, then,” Ifelayo mused aloud. She looked up at the two Nords. “I beg your pardons, but it has been a very long journey across the mountains, and I am anxious to rest.” 

Kleppr slid a key across the wooden counter to her. “Down the left hall, door on the left,” he said. “Margret’s room is at the end. I’ll have my wife bring you something to eat when you’re settled in.”

She brought her palms together and bowed to him. “Thank you.” Then she turned to Cosnach. “I believe you owe me one hundred septims?”

**Author's Note:**

> I'll be taking some liberties with events and dialogue as they occur in-game; Ifelayo won't be involved in The Forsworn Conspiracy, for example, even though she should've gotten a note slipped into her pocket just now! She also isn't involved in any of the guilds, the Civil War, or the main quest; mention might be made of the presence of dragons, but she's unlikely to encounter any. 
> 
> I have lots of screenshots that will accompany later chapters.
> 
> This story is completely sans beta; all mistakes are mine.


End file.
